


Punishment And Ruminations

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Caning, M/M, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme. Feuilly punishing Courfeyrac with a cane to his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment And Ruminations

Courfeyrac regretted his impulse as soon as he stopped speaking, because while Bahorel looked suitably chastised, Feuilly glowered at him in complete silence, and Courfeyrac closed his mouth quite firmly.

He was not to curse in an argument. He was not to be crass. And overall, he was not to interrupt. Courfeyrac was momentarily grateful for the fact that even on impulse, he had broken only one of those all important rules.

When the evening’s debate was over, Courfeyrac followed the working man out of the Musain without protest, knowing Marius could go into their now shared apartment without him for the time being - after all, Courfeyrac went home with a girl regularly enough. 

Feuilly was distinctly not a girl, but then, this wasn’t going to be as enjoyable as it would be with a girl, either. “My apologies, monsieur.” Courfeyrac said as they walked down the dim street and towards Feuilly’s apartment.

The working man said nothing, and Courfeyrac wanted to cry, but tears never got him anything with Feuilly. 

"You needn’t have done that." Feuilly said quietly as he pushed the door open, allowing Courfeyrac entrance before himself, and then setting about lighting candles as Courfeyrac sat carefully on a wooden chair in the centre of the room. Feuilly’s two rooms were sparsely furnished and without the books most of the students owned in their dozens.

He merely had a folded easel and some cheap oil paints rested upon his desk. “No, sir.” Courfeyrac said in a soft voice, his lip quivering. 

"Tell me why you’re here, Courfeyrac." Feuilly said, and the words were crisp, an order, and Courfeyrac gave himself over to the power in those words, gave himself over to the working man who was a good few years his senior. 

"Because I interrupted Bahorel, monsieur."

"Because you interrupted Bahorel." Feuilly agreed. "How many strokes does that warrant, Courfeyrac?"

"I don’t know, sir." Courfeyrac said, and there was a crack to his voice he tried to hold back, his lip quivering even more so than before. 

"Are you going to cry, Courfeyrac?"

"No, sir." 

"Good." Feuilly moved forwards with a cane grasped in his hand, and Courfeyrac looked up at him with wide eyes. "It’s fifteen strokes, Courfeyrac."

"Yes, sir." Courfeyrac’s words came out in a whisper, and then he bit his lip as he looked up at Feuilly. 

"Hands out." Courfeyrac obeyed, his palms up, and then he straightened his back and pressed his lips together. Feuilly brought the cane down sharply across Courfeyrac’s palms, and the brunet let out a sharp sound of pain.

Feuilly brought it down again, and then again, and there were lines of pain all across his palms, one atop the other and the next, and Courfeyrac held back his tears until Feuilly had landed the last stroke, ending the furious heat across his skin, and God, it was sharp, like tongues of flame across his palms, and Courfeyrac let out a choked noise.

"I’ll get you balm in twenty minutes." Feuilly said quietly, pulling up the other chair and taking Courfeyrac’s hands in his, looking at them with a careful, practised eye. 

"Thank you, Feuilly." And he could use Feuilly’s name now, didn’t mind doing so now that the punishment was quite done with, and Feuilly offered him an ever so slight smile. 

"You know, I would be far more pleased with you if you simply adhered to the rules I set."

"Yes, I know." Courfeyrac mumbled, and then he broke, and there were tears on his cheeks, and he was a chastised young school boy like he had been a good five years ago, but this was different, because this did not end with being stared at by a schoolmaster with a furrowed brow - Feuilly pulled him close and cradled Courfeyrac’s head to his chest, letting him sob.

Feuilly pressed a firm kiss to Courfeyrac’s head, among the curls there, and Courfeyrac grasped onto Feuilly’s lapels tightly, shaking as he sobbed. It hurt to grip Feuilly’s shirt so hard, taxing on the new pain on his palms, and Feuilly hushed him gently.

"It’s alright." Feuilly said gently, and he  _rocked_  Courfeyrac like a babe, as if Courfeyrac wasn’t humiliated enough already, but God, God it was a comfort, and Courfeyrac took in greedy gasps of breath as he clung onto the other man. “It’s alright. You are getting better after all, aren’t you?” 

And it was true, Courfeyrac  _was_  getting better at not interrupting, and furthermore at debating seriously, but dear God, it hurt when he failed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

"I know, it’s alright, you’re alright." Feuilly said in a quiet, comforting tone, until Courfeyrac’s tears had stopped off and at that point Feuilly removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped carefully at Courfeyrac’s eyes and his cheeks.

Courfeyrac was suddenly struck with the realization that Feuilly had never taken on a mistress as Bahorel had, as Joly and Bossuet had each other and their shared Musichetta, as Courfeyrac did regularly, as Grantaire and Jehan had, as Marius had his nameless princess, and even  _Combeferre,_ where he had no mistress, had his mother and devoted hours to her and the rest of his family, and he regarded Feuilly with his tear-streaked cheeks and his quivering lip, and he said, “Don’t you ever get lonely, Feuilly?”

And Feuilly looked at him, and he gave a little grin, gently patting Courfeyrac’s cheek. “I have you other boys, do I not?” He said, and Courfeyrac pursed his lips.

"No, that’s not what I mean, it’s not the same-" Feuilly affected Courfeyrac with a firm look, and Courfeyrac closed his mouth. 

"Would you like to stay here this evening? You can have my bed, I’ll sleep-"

"With me." Courfeyrac said firmly, and Feuilly blinked at him. 

"Courfeyrac."

"Feuilly." The brunet retorted, and Feuilly pursed his lips, attempting to hide his amusement. 

"Fine. I’ll get you your balm." Courfeyrac smiled to himself as Feuilly stepped up, momentarily forgetting the burning ache across his palms as he watched Feuilly go. He wondered if Feuilly would ever take on a mistress, and then he wondered if Feuilly would ever take on a wife.

Would any of them take on wives? After the planned revolution?

Courfeyrac was suddenly struck with the realization that he might die on those barricades. Thoughtful as he stared at his red, line-marked palms, he realized he didn’t truly mind, and perhaps that wasn’t quite right. 

"Are you sure about joining me in bed? I do snore, you know." Feuilly murmured, and Courfeyrac offered him as wide a grin as he could muster.

"And I am a handsy fellow." Courfeyrac replied with a wink, and Feuilly’s laugh was warm, like sunlight on Courfeyrac’s cheeks on a nice summer’s day. 

"Come, Courfeyrac, hold out your hands."


End file.
